Saturday, September 24, 2011


Fantasy Friday

I play Dungeons and Dragons every Friday. That is to say I run a 4th Edition Dungeons & Dragons campaign every Friday set in the country of Beniro. As such I've decided to chronicle the hero's adventures from the perspective of different characters my friends play. Each week and each short chapter I will rotate the perspective so you can get a feel for all the characters. I will try my best to capture my friend's characters and the adventures they go on. I might change some elements but know I do it for the story.

A lot of the art I will be using is not credited, so if you know the artist, tell me and I'll label it appropriately.
Rise of the White Spider
            A piece of wood fell from above and landed with a click clack as it rolled down the side of the roof. Ryjac followed its path from the darkness above to where it landed and slid down the top of the Temple of Kord. She knew it was a torch dropped by some weary traveler and was pleased it wasn’t a weary traveler that hit the black and white tile roof of the massive temple. It would have ruined her morning, and the morning was her favorite times.
            The city was all but dark and all but silent. Even the most ribald revelers had either stumbled off to bed or found one in the streets below. She always took the early morning shift, not because she was lazy or cowardly, but because she loved the city when it slept under her feet. She would sit on the rooftop and let her uncle’s Hands spy and scout for any signs of trouble. They allowed her most private of pleasures. The pleasure to just simply sit, alone, in the dark and watch the city as it slept. 

            During this time, the city no longer belonged to even the hardiest of dwarf, even though the Hands served the King and his kin. In the dark, the city belonged to her kind. Where the eyes of men, and dwarf alike, failed, they eyes of drow captured every detail. Where the eyes of men would fail to see, their eyes saw the city at night as it was during day. At night, it merely took on a different hue. The night belonged to the drow.

            The drow of Doktham were all refugees from fallen drow kingdoms. The King of the city welcomed the dark elves and their talents with welcome arms. Few positions were more appropriate the military minded drows as the city guard. Before she was old enough to speak, her uncle had already decided what she would become. And so, Ryjac had become a member of the elite drow night guards her uncle led, the Black Hands.

            Yet, despite her uncle being the head of the Black Hands, and being considered one of the best rangers the Black Hands had ever trained, Ryjac did not seek out the most dangerous jobs or compete for titles with the other guards. She could have been like Sherzat and become the city’s top spy in the City of Screams. She could have sought favor with the King and become one of the Honor Guard like Jerzaherazod. She could have taken the duty of seeking out new strains of precious metals for the dwarves to mine for the wealth and prosperity of Doktham like Gnaarmeus. Instead, she took the morning shift, and sat on roof top of the Temple of the Platinum Dragon. It was her duty to watch the city as it slept, to protect the people at their most defenseless and to watch as light turned to dark and then light again. Yet, not all was at peace and she was unable to enjoy the simple pleasures of her duty.

 She had broken up a fight at the Dirty Rag not even an hour before with the help of two other Hands. It had been a while since there was a brawl that sunk to bloodshed. She burst into the front door without pulling her blades from the midnight leather sheaths on her belt. Instead, she opted for a more diplomatic approach. Her eyes searched the room until she came upon the biggest brute still standing. A bugbear?  The beastly creature was swinging a gnarly club at the heads of any who got close enough. She ducked past the club, leapt between his arms, over his head and behind the hairy cretin. Then she simple grabbed an arrow from its quiver and set the head into his shoulder blade so as to just break the skin of his thick hide. She let out a violent hiss in Commontongue, “Drop it.” The club hit the ground with a thud and the beasty was just smart enough to put his hands up. By this point, the other two Hands had either knocked out several of the bar folk or restrained them with bolos. A few minutes of sobering up the patrons with harsh threats of time in the dungeons or banishment, and everything was under control. She left the other two guards to deal with the rest and left for her time in the Temple District. She had to step over the covered bodies of the unfortunate victims of the bar brawl as she made her way toward a ladder.

A couple of hours later, she squeezed her knees but it was not the axed half-orc or choked hobgoblin that worried her. It was the city. To say nothing was happening in the streets below would be a lie. There had been a drop in recent crimes committed by citizens but not in crimes committed by the gods. The city was not silent and the chorus of breath in the town was interrupted by hacking coughs and wheezing.

            Ryjac leapt down through the air in a haphazard tumble but landed on her feet, as gently as a cat, in the alley below. She stood up straight and irritably pushed her long crimson bangs out of her face, tucking them behind her ebony ears and pulling her black hood over her head. Her scarlet eyes caught the light of some unfortunate figures sitting by a makeshift campfire in the street. They coughed and hacked, shivering, but one of them sat still as stone. Her eyes itched with heartache and she turned her gaze back to the street and made her way to the Great Hall of the King.

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